“Ooh, just imagine if it was like one of those vending machines where you use the lever thing to pick out exactly who you want. Just put your money in the slot and—”
“Darn it!” Jillian slapped her forehead.
“What?”
“I totally forgot. I’ve got to go feed my meter. I didn’t have any change when I parked,” she explained, digging in her purse for a dollar. “I meant to go right back out.”
“Drinking champagne will do that to you. Anyway, why are you worried? This late, no one cares.”
“It’s only six-thirty.” Jillian rose. “And trust me, if anyone’s going to get a parking ticket at six fifty-nine, it’ll be me.”
Downstairs, she walked out the front door and through the old-fashioned half-moon movie-house entryway with its central ticket booth. On the street, the late afternoon was bleeding into June dusk as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The clouds of the morning had burned away. The air felt soft and welcoming.
She’d taken off her jacket inside and the breeze fluttered through the claret silk tank she wore beneath. It felt good to move. It would have felt good to dance, if she’d only known how. She felt a sudden, restless urge for something new.
Her meter, she could see from a few cars away, was firmly over into redline territory. But she was less interested in that than the guy a bit beyond, walking down the sidewalk toward her. Tall, dark, moving with an easy assurance, he wore a jacket and tie and sunglasses. The breeze blew his dark hair onto his forehead; he raised an impatient hand to rake it back.
This was it, Jillian thought. She wanted to make a change? Now was her chance. Just a small change. All she had to do was glance at him and smile. Simple enough. Something millions of women did every day. Once she got used to that behavior, she’d move on. For now, just a smile. That wasn’t much, was it?
So why was her heart hammering?
Jillian stood at her meter, fumbling with her coins. He was closer now. Almost time. It wasn’t as if it was a military operation, she thought impatiently. She just needed to look at him and do it, as if it was natural. Natural.
Hah.
She glanced up, preparing to smile. And froze.
Handsome was the wrong word. Handsome was too tepid, a description for men with perfect Ken-doll looks. His was a face that was more about purpose and intent, pure force of personality. Strong bones, straight nose, a chin that looked as though it knew how to take a punch. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses. His mouth was straight and wide and far too intriguing.
And then he smiled and the coins slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers.
With a noise of frustration, Jillian bent to grab for them, trying fruitlessly to capture the rolling disks before they went over the curb and through the grate beyond.
“Need some help?”
Adrenaline vaulted through her system. He’d stopped. The guy had stopped and now he was bent down by her meter, trying to retrieve the coins. “I think they’re all on their way to the Columbia River by now,” she said.
“Slippery devils,” he said, pushing up his glasses and grinning.
She could hear her pulse thudding in her ears. His eyes were black, she saw, his dark brows quirked now with just a hint of humor.
He handed her a quarter. “There’s one, anyway.”
Her hand was shaking as she took the coin from him. Okay, this was more than she’d planned. It was supposed to be a smile and glance, not a whole discussion. She wasn’t sure she was up for a full discussion, especially after all the champagne.
She rose.
“What about your other quarter?” He nodded at the meter as he stood. “One won’t take you through the witching hour.”
“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
“Feeling lucky, huh?” He grinned, and she felt something in her stomach flip. Lethal smile, absolutely lethal. And without warning she found herself staring at his upper lip and wondering just what it would be like to kiss him.
Lucky? “I guess I am,” she said. It was the champagne, she told herself. Starting up her own personal perestroika campaign was one thing, picking up men on the street was another.
But he was already rummaging in his pocket to pull out a handful of coins.
“You can’t pay my meter,” she objected.
“Sure I can,” he said as he picked through the change for a quarter and put it in. “It’s good karma. After a day like I’ve had, I could use it.”
“Uh-oh,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Uh-oh, is right. If you see a lynch mob coming out of the Odeon, they’ll be looking for me.”
“Is that where you’re going?” she asked, falling in step beside him as they walked the dozen yards to where the light from the theater’s marquee spilled over the sidewalk.
“Yep. How about you?”
She nodded.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink but I’m here for a party. Actually, I’m late for a party,” he corrected. “Really late.”
“That’s okay, I’m here with—” She broke off and gave him a suspicious stare. “What kind of a party?”
“Me?” He held the door for her. “A rehearsal dinner, for a wedding. Why?”
She walked through, the little buzz of excitement fading. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Gil, would it?”
“Guilty as charged. And you are?”
“Jillian Logan, the bridesmaid you left at the altar. Nice of you to finally join us.”
Gil’s lips twitched as he followed her into the lobby. “Left you at the altar, huh? Did I have a brain fade? Were we getting married?”
“I’m not likely to marry the kind of guy who’d show up—” she checked her watch “—over an hour late to his best friend’s wedding rehearsal.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I never proposed, then. It was touch-and-go out there.”
She gave him a look from under her brows. “You know, you had the bride wearing a groove in the carpet pacing over you? Lisa’s got enough going on right now without one more thing to stress about.”
His amusement dipped a bit. “I know, trust me.”
She folded her arms, a bit like a teacher scolding a wayward student. “Not to mention the fact that we were all standing around waiting.”
“Not to mention,” he agreed. And she was ticked. Protective of Lisa and just a little ticked about waiting around. Or maybe the altar thing.
